


One Day, Everything Will Be Okay

by hanaellena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know where this will go, I literally have no idea, Many tags will be added, Panic Attacks, Poor Stiles, Recovery, Star Wars References, Stydia, Summary will probably change, Working process, poor babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanaellena/pseuds/hanaellena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Humble Distraction. Stiles and Lydia, as well as everyone else try to recover from the events of the Nogitsune, but it's not easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I'm so sorry this took so long! I've been struggling with A-levels but they're over now! This is the sequel to Humble Distraction which you can find on my account, however I don't think it's a hundred percent necessary to read beforehand. I was blown away by the response it got here and on fanfiction.net so thank you for that! I am very much not happy with this but I decided to just post it anyway, hopefully later chapters will be less rushed and more in character. Please enjoy anyway! Love Han. OH YEAH, please review because they make my day:)))

Stiles was running.

His heart was pounding hard. The sound of it pulsated against his eardrums, loud enough to drown out the sound of crunching leaves and branches beneath his feet as he scrambled through some unknown forest.

He wished it was loud enough to distract him from the fear. Merciless. Crippling. It tore through his body, tidal wave upon tidal wave as the cold bit at his skin and his knees grew weak.  He wouldn’t stop though. He couldn’t. For something was snapping at his ankles, breathing against his neck.

It was chasing him. Though no matter how fast or how far he ran he could not rid the feeling of it being upon him;  _within_  him. Something curled in his stomach. Laughter echoed through his mind. And Stiles knew he was running from something he’d never truly be able to escape. Not really.

He fell, wrists jarring beneath him against the tough forest floor. And then in front of him were two feet, a pair of legs. And he daren’t look up. He wouldn’t let himself see those dreadful eyes staring down at him. That terrible smile of success.

The voice brought tears to his eyes, sent sickness to his stomach and an icy shiver tearing through his body. Though he still wouldn't look. Instead he curled in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest, lying there in the dirt like a lost, fragile child. And he couldn't escape it. The voice. The cold, gleeful voice, bouncing from the trees, filling his head with a malevolent kind of poison.

“ _Let me in_.” It said.

So that’s what he did.

* * *

 

He awoke in his kitchen, standing up, body coated in cold perspiration. His chest rose and fell in huge laboured movements. He was sure he felt tears upon his cheeks.

He looked down. In his hand was a large kitchen knife. The silver of it glinted in the dim moonlight that trickled in through the window. Stiles immediately dropped it, and the sharp clatter rang out as it hit the floor.

Not two seconds later his father was racing into the room, panic stricken.

“Stiles, what happened? Is that you?”

The hassled voice startled him and he span round, slowing his breathing in an attempt to regain some kind of composure.

“I’m fine, dad. I was just getting water. Go back to sleep.”

“What was that sound?”

Stiles bent down and picked up the blade he had dropped. His father’s eyes went wide.

“I just knocked it off the surface. One of us must’ve left it out.”

His hands were shaking as he quickly opened a drawer and put the knife back where it belonged. He knew his father noticed because his face grew incredulous and worried.

“Stiles, something’s wrong. You need to talk to me.”

“I said I was fine. Just getting water.”

It was a pathetic lie. But Stiles pulled out a glass anyway and quickly filled it.

“Dad, you can stop looking at me like that now. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“You didn’t wake me, I wasn’t asleep.”

A pang of guilt hit Stiles’ chest.

His father must've noticed for he quickly made a dismissive hand gesture to accompany his next words.

“It’s a huge report that needs to be in for tomorrow, nothing more.”

Stiles chose to pretend that his father was being truthful rather than to accept the real reason he hadn’t been sleeping. It was because he was terrified of things like  _this_  happening.

Stiles nodded in acknowledgement, then shuffled on his feet, trying to ignore the way his knees were threatening to buckle.

“I’m gonna get back to bed.” He said, clutching his glass tight in his hand.

“But Stiles…”

“I’m really tired, Dad. Please.”

His father sighed heavily and Stiles wanted to crumble under his tormented gaze.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “But I’ll stay down here. I work faster downstairs anyway.”

“Dad, you don’t have to stay up for me.”

“The fact that I’m your father makes that statement entirely untrue. But it’s okay, Stiles. I want to.”

The Sheriff gave a sorry attempt at a smile. Stiles didn’t return it. His heart was still pounding, and now guilt clutched onto it too. So instead, he made his way back upstairs as quickly as he could without alerting the already concerned man that remained in his kitchen.

Stiles pushed his bedroom door to until he heard it click shut, then raced to his bed to lift up the mattress and pull out the pair of handcuffs he’d stolen from his father a couple of days ago. He’d been trying desperately not to use them, telling himself that he was safe, that it was all over; that he was  _sane_. But now the fear told him otherwise. Sleepwalking was one thing. He was used to it. He’d done it even when his mother was alive. But kitchen knives were a whole other ball game.

Leaving the key on his bedside table, he tightened one of the loops around his wrist and the other to one of the bars that lined his headboard. Somehow, the second the cuffs were secure and tight, relief swept through him, dulling the fear that had been insistently thrumming through his bones.

He climbed into his bed, grabbing his phone on the way. When he reached a comfortable position, or as comfortable as he could manage with an arm securely fasened above his head, he found himself staring at his blank phone screen in the dark. The thumb of his free hand hovered over it for a second. His eyebrows furrowed as he debated something with himself, then he tossed it back onto his bedside table with a sigh.

As minutes, hours passed by, Stiles drifted into a state of somewhat peaceful semi-consciousness. He daren’t close his eyes for the fear of waking up somewhere else again. Perhaps this time it would be in his fathers’ room, and the kitchen knife would not be in his hand, but rather through the sheriff’s chest, or maybe even his own. So instead he stared at the ceiling, painting imaginary patterns across the plain of greyish blue, watching spools of movie reel play out kind memories from his past. He’d be pining gormlessly after a popular strawberry blonde who didn’t know he existed, and then practicing lacrosse with his asthmatic best friend. Later, he’d be curled up in his mother’s lap as she read to him some childish bedtime story; one he knew word for word for he’d heard it a thousand times already. The memories swept him away into a world void of the supernatural; filled with only the mundane particulars of a life that no longer existed.

Later again, he didn’t know how much so, the sound of his phone vibrating dragged him away from blissful imagination and back into the reality of his gloomy bedroom. He scrambled for it, forgetting the restraint that still pinned him to the bed. It was an awkward, uncomfortable manoeuvre and he cursed himself for not preparing for such circumstances.

When he saw Lydia’s name flashing across his screen, apprehension quickly rose within him. A phone call from Lydia Martin at this time was nothing good. It only meant danger, death and everything bad.

“Lydia, what’s wrong?”

His voice was immediate and urgent as he brought the phone to his ear.

“Stiles?”  Lydia replied. She sounded afraid.

“Lydia, where are you? What happened?”

“I’m in my bedroom. And nothing happened. Look, I’m sorry for waking you. I shouldn’t have called. I’ll go now…”

“You didn’t wake me” said Stiles before she could hang up. “Don’t go.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Lydia?”

“I had a nightmare, Stiles. A bad one.”

For a second, Stiles was confused. Then relief arrived at the realisation that there would be no death tonight. No dead body this time. Thank God.

“So you rang me?” he asked, keeping his voice down.

“Who else would I ring?”

Sadly, Stiles didn’t have an answer for that.

“I knew this was stupid.”

Out of irony, Stiles suddenly found himself chuckling slightly.

“And now you’re laughing at me. Thanks, Stiles. Some kind of comfort you are.”

“No, no wait, I’m sorry.” Stiles blurted out. “It’s just, I sort of had a nightmare too. I seriously debated calling you as well.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s not something that I’m really rushing to relive. What about you?”

“Definitely not.”

There was a semi-comfortable silence between them, though the weight of his dark bedroom made it more pressing and intense. Then Stiles heard Lydia take a deep breath through the phone.

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?” he breathed in acknowledgement.

“Can you talk to me, please?” Lydia’s voice had become a little quieter, but calmer. Definitely calmer.

“Sure, what about?”

“I don’t know.” Said Lydia. “You always have something to talk about. Something stupid. Star Wars. You love Star Wars. Talk about that. Live long and prosper and all that. I don’t know. Just talk.”

“I’ll have you know, Star Wars is pretty far from stupid.” stated Stiles matter-of-factly. “And live long and prosper is actually from Star Trek.”

“They’re the same thing.”

“Take that back or we can no longer be friends.”

“I’ll take it back if you can justify that they’re not. Where does Star Wars take place?”

“In space.”

“Where does Star Trek take place?”

“Uh, in space.”

“Exactly, and they all run around with their little alien friends, saving the world and doing God know what else.”

 “You clearly haven’t watched Star Wars  _or_  Star Trek. Scott was bad enough. It drives me  _insane_.”

“Then enlighten me. Tell me everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

So he told her just that.

* * *

 

“So basically, in this film there are giant talking teddy bears forming an underdeveloped species in outer space?”

“When you put it that way, yes, I guess. But they’re called Ewoks. There’s a distinction.”

They’d been talking for a good half an hour. Lydia was, or was pretending to be genuinely intrigued by what she was hearing, although she didn’t hesitate to call him out on something or other every five seconds. Stiles knew exactly what was happening, but he didn’t mind. It was comfort for both of them. Hearing her voice; the soft touch of Lydia-like frustration every now and then when he mentioned something particularly absurd was like a blanket of warmth, simply due to its familiarity; its commonplace. 

“We should watch it sometime.”

That caught him by surprise.

“Wait, what? You and me? Watch Star Wars?”

A short breathy laugh came through the phone.

“Yes, Stiles. You and me. I’ll be interested to see if your synopsis does it justice.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open for a few seconds before he shook himself to reply.

“Definitely.” He said with a vibrant nod of his head, as if Lydia was right there able to see it. “We can definitely do that. We can do that several times. Several times in one night even. Watch Star Wars I mean. Obviously.”

A sound came through the phone and Stiles couldn’t tell whether it was a laugh or a sound of disgust.

“You seem more like you again.” Came her voice, and thankfully Stiles could sense the smile behind the words.

“Yeah,” he said, shuffling a little to get more comfortable where he perched against his headboard. “I guess so.”

Things went quiet again, but only for couple of seconds.

“So how are things?” Lydia’s voice returned, smooth and kind through the phone.

 Stiles sighed.

“You know, they’re alright.” He said rather dismissively. “Just school. Three weeks off because of  _illness_ leaves you with a hell of a lot of homework. Coach is threatening to literally take my head off with an axe…”

“No, Stiles. I meant how are things with  _you_?”

Stiles frowned. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Uhh, I guess they’re okay.” He said hesitantly. “I mean, they would be if I weren’t handcuffed to my bed right now for fear of killing everyone I know.”

“What?”

“Please forget I just told you that.”

“Handcuffed?”

“Well, yeah.”

“To the bed?”

“Uh huh.”

“Stiles, for the love of God, take them off.”

Stiles could hear shuffling on Lydia’s end then, and lots of it. His frown deepened.

“Lydia, what are you doing over there?”

“Don’t worry about what I’m doing.” She said rather defiantly. “Did you even hear what I said? Take the handcuffs off.”

“I don’t think that would be best.”

“No Stiles, let me tell you what would be best.” Said Lydia, and her voice came across stern. “You not living in a constant state of fear, that’s what would be best.”

There was the sound of something rattling; then a strange rumbling started up that Stiles couldn’t pair with anything in particular. It sounded a little like car engine switching on.

“Lydia, what’s going on?”

“I said don’t worry about it” Lydia’s reiterated, and now she sounded distant and flustered. “Have you taken them off yet?”

“Uhh, yeah.” 

“You’re lying.”

“Am not.”

Stiles glanced up to the handcuffs that were still secure around his pale wrist and the back of his bed. He pulled upon them slightly for no particular reason and felt cold metal tug against his skin. Lydia didn’t respond to that one. The rumbling was still inherent in the background, and now Stiles swore he could hear music, albeit almost inaudible. Stiles wondered if he was simply imagining it. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind had played tricks on him.

“Lydia?”

“Still here.”

“Okay, but, are you gonna tell me what you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything.” Lydia said,only aiding Stiles’ frustration. “But hey, now it’s my turn to talk. Give me something to talk about.”

“Uh, I don’t know. You like makeup. Talk about makeup.”

“Really, Stiles? Makeup? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Hey, I’m under pressure here. I’m sorry I can’t be the king of conversation topics right now.” 

“Pick something else.”

“Uhh, I talked about Star Wars. So you talk about your favourite film. Is that fair?”

“You really want me to talk about The Notebook?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“Alright then. Well I know that you’d hate it. It’s full of clichés and unrealistic romance and true love.”

“I could do true love.”

“You could?”

Stiles didn’t respond. He couldn’t. One second everything was simply trivial and the next his hand was tightening around his phone until his knuckles turned white. His heart began to thud incessantly in his chest. Fear. Piercing, unforgiving fear injected itself into his system. The world blurred.

 Standing in his room was a figure.

It stood in front of his door. In its hand was a kitchen knife. The  _same_  kitchen knife. It was too dark to see his face. But Stiles didn’t need to see to know who it was. There was no one else it could be. It was back.  _He_  was back.

“Stiles?”

Lydia’s voice was urgent. The sound of a car door slamming shut came with it. Then footsteps. Stiles had no clue how many times she’d said his name. Her voice was trapped behind a ringing that had flared up against his eardrums. And suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He gasped for air but each heave only brought in the tiniest amount. Each one seemed to birth a new wave of fear and panic.

“Stiles, answer me. What’s happening?”

He looked up, and the figure was gone, leaving his room empty and ominous. His mouth hung open and his body shook.

“He was here. Lydia, he was here.” He managed to gasp, before he let the fear overwhelm him.

“He’s not real, Stiles.” Lydia was saying, but Stiles could no longer hear her. “He’s not real. You hold on, Stiles. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The phone dropped from his shaking hand and he found himself tugging, _heaving_  at the handcuffs holding him in place with a frantic kind of madness. His body went sprawling as he kicked his covers onto the floor. And then the world swam out of focus. A horrible nausea rose in his chest and filled his head. The whole world suddenly felt like it was ending. And he could think of nothing else but  _him_.

Suddenly the light in his bedroom flashed on, only scattering his thoughts further. Then his hand came free from his restraint. He had no clue how until he noticed pale fingers weaving themselves between his own, clutching on tight, doing anything to ground him. Then the same hands were upon his cheeks and he found himself gazing into wide green eyes, though they slipped in and out of focus as his head continued to spin.

“Look at me, Stiles.” Came her voice, only just piercing through the haze of panic that clung to him and refused to let go.

He couldn’t tell if he was going to be sick, or scream, or both. But then soft lips were crashing into his and his world swooped. The erratic little breaths halted. In fact, breathing halted all together. He felt one of her hands slip from his face to behind his head, curling into his hair, pulling him closer. It held him down, pinning him to reality – to sanity.

Her lips moved against his desperately at first, but as his quaking body slowly began to settle, her lips followed parallel, becoming gentler, and he found himself reciprocating, following her movements, bringing his own trembling hands onto her waist.

Ever so slowly, she pulled him from the abyss, one he was all too familiar with. It took time, and when their lips parted his breathing still came laboured and his body still shook. But it was different now. Better.

Stiles stared at Lydia’s face. The beauty of it. Solid and real. She stared back. Something shone in her eyes that could have been tears or something else entirely.

“You did it again.” Stiles uttered between shuddering breaths.

Lydia smiled, one full of warmth and sadness.

“Of course I did.” Her voice was breathy and light, and her cheeks were flushed with the sweetest shade of pink. “I always will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm insanely sorry that it's taken me so long to update this. I planned to write and finish the story during my term break, but I got ridiculously ill to an extent I've never been before and was unable to do so. Now I'm at college for the next two weeks before I break up for summer so I guess I'll really kick off writing again as soon as I'm not at college. This is very angsty, more so than I planned it to be. Everyone's still mourning. What I think I'm going to do is try and mainly keep to canon like I did with Humble Distraction. So next chapter hopefully it will get more eventful and exciting with obvs Stydia to go with. OOh and baby Derek yay:) I'll figure out a way to include Malia as I think she's great I just need a way of writing her in without the plot holes because I just can't bring myself to include them. I don't like this chapter, but I hope it's okay.

 

"Dammit Stiles, get up!"

"Hgmmph."

"You're unbelievable."

"Yeah. Unbelievably tired and unappreciative of being so rudely awoken."

A pillow came down forcefully across the back of Stiles' head. He still had half of his face buried deep in the comfort of his own.

"Get. Up. Now." Each word was emphasised by a new attack of linen and feathers, finally having him scramble up from his uneasy slumber.

"Okay,  _okay_. Jesus. I'm up." he said groggily, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbing his eyes. He ran the same hand through his sleep dishevelled hair.

Lydia stood there, pillow in hand and a wholly unamused expression across her face. She knew she was borderline glaring at him, but it was only what he deserved.

"School starts in half an hour, Stiles." she said sternly. "And maybe you're okay with being late, but I'm not. So get up. Get ready. And try to make yourself look presentable for once."

"And _I'm_  the one that's unbelievable?"

"Don't test me, Stilinski."

"But it's so hard to restrain myself when you're all authoritative like this."

Lydia felt Stiles' hand hook around her wrist.

"Tell me exactly what classes as  _testing_  you. This?"

She didn't resist as he gently pulled the pillow from her grasp and lay it down on the bed beside himself before tugging her towards him swiftly. She wound up resting between his legs as his thumb traced delicate patterns upon the skin of her forearm.

"Or this?"

He pulled her closer. Now she was pressed up against him, leaning forward, and his lips made contact with the skin just beneath her jaw. Her face dropped and her eyelids fluttered shut when she felt his warm breath upon her neck to accompany the soft kisses he trailed along her jaw line. But a second later she was rolling her eyes and pulling away, leaving him looking rather ridiculous with his lips still parted and pouted.

"I don't know what you're trying to achieve here, but it sure as hell isn't working."

Her hand dusted over his hair before she firmly patted his cheek, an intentionally condescending expression coming over her face. Stiles shoulders sagged but he remained holding onto her wrist hopefully.

"C'mon." he moaned. "Just imagine it. No school. No stress. Just me. You. In bed. All day. Sleeping. Not together of course. Unless that's what you wanted. I mean, not that I would want that. Not that I  _don't_  want that..."

"Stiles, shut up."

Stiles lips came together tight.

"Don't look at me like that." said Lydia in response to the stupid expression he then adopted. "I thought we agreed, no more missing school."

"We can always make an exception"

"Nice try, buddy. But I think I'll stick with no."

Stiles let out a long over-exaggerated sigh.

"You're so damn stubborn."

"I prefer the word headstrong, or independent."

"No, I'm pretty sure stubborn's the one I'm looking for."

" _Now_  you're testing me."

"Is it working?"

"It's working to make me question why I still sleep here every night, yes."

Lydia tugged her hand away before turning and strutting over to Stiles' desk where a standing mirror and several beauty appliances had appeared - Lydia's doing. She sat herself down and started retouching her already perfect face, stopping only to look at Stiles' reflection sceptically. He'd slumped miserably where he still had himself perched on the edge of his bed.

"I'm waiting, Stiles."

Stiles looked adamant for a second, as if he was going to protest again, but then he let out a sound similar to that of a disgruntled toddler and finally stood up. He tripped over his own feet on the way to the bathroom, which should have made Lydia roll her eyes again, but it was so Stiles-esque that instead it tugged the corners of her lips into a tiny smile.

When had Stiles Stilinski become such an endearing little idiot?

Maybe it was when she realised how seldom such Stiles-like behaviour still occurred. Maybe it was right back when she'd learnt how much more hid beneath the nonsensical utterances and erratic body language; how little of an idiot he actually was. Or maybe it was the day she realised he could die any minute because of some stupid demon fox spirit.

Regardless of any of this, he was still the  _endearing little idiot_  that made her late for school that morning.

* * *

Stiles knew Lydia well enough to be aware that she wasn't really mad. The only reason she'd given him the silent treatment in the Jeep was to assert some kind of power; power that neither of them held above the other. It was the reason they argued so much.

He'd talked away at her for the entire duration of the journey anyway, never once apologising for making them late. Admittedly, he should have, but that was impossible now.

Now he sat in Econ.

Coach was giving a lecture at the front of class in his usual slightly-angry-for-no-reason-what-so-ever tone of voice. Scott was pulled up at the desk next to him as always. They'd shared a quick look when he'd ran in fifteen minutes late only to be greeted by the usual barrage of reprimands from Coach and the whole class staring at him.

People had been doing that a lot recently, staring.

Ever since his borderline mental breakdown in front of his entire history class he might as well have had a tree growing out of his face with the looks he received. And not to mention the rumours going round that he'd had something to do with the hospital massacre a month and a half ago. And despite his father's stellar cover up with the CCTV footage, half the school still thought he was some kind of psycho mass murderer.

To be honest, they were kind of right.

* * *

At the end of class, both he and Scott were blessed with a free period. They made familiar trek to his locker, something they did without thinking. For some reason it didn't feel the same as it once did. Then again, nothing felt the same any more. So much had happened regarding the supernatural, pain, suffering and general insanity, that mundane things like this had become almost the lesser reality. Every day life was now a kind of surreal experience.  _How twisted_ , thought Stiles.

He relished the conversations he was able to have with his best friend to take his mind of such changes. However, somehow they always seemed to revolve back around to subjects he'd rather not discuss.

"So she's sleeping at your house?"

"Yeah."

"In your bed?"

"Yeah."

"You and Lydia. Together."

"Yeah. I mean no. Not  _together_  together."

"Right. And how long has this been happening?"

"First time it happened was the night of the..." Stiles paused. "The night of the funeral. Then three weeks later, lets just say I was struggling a bit with the whole  _murdering a bunch of people_ little issue I had going on _,_ and she was there again. After that it just sort of became, you know, a  _thing_."

"What kind of thing?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Well, she did kiss you."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that."

"Has she kissed you since?"

Stiles stopped abruptly having only unloaded a single book into his bag. He looked at Scott impassively.

"I'm sorry," said Scott, hardly sincere. He hooked his hands around the straps of his rucksack and adjusted it on his back. "But dude, I just found out that Lydia Martin has been sleeping at my best friend's house for  _weeks_  and I think I deserve some information. Or at least tell me why you're not insanely happy about this? I mean, it's  _Lydia_."

Stiles sighed.

"Yeah, I know." he said, sloppily shoving everything else he would need into his bag and turning back to Scott. "It's Lydia. Lydia's great. Lydia's hot. Lydia's everything I could ever wish for, and so totally out of my league it's not even funny. I have to pinch myself every morning just to check that she's actually there and it's not just the beginning of another wet dream or something."

"Stiles, too much information."

The two of them had started to walk again, heading for the main entrance.

"So I don't get it. What's actually wrong?"

Stiles sighed again.

"I'm starting to think that I'm just a  _distraction._ " he said dully. "A way to stop her thinking about everything that's happened. Either that or she's just there out of pity; like she's the reward I got, you know? It's like,  _hey, congratulations on being de-possessed and not dying. Here's the love of your life on a plate_. I don't want her to be a damn trophy prize. I don't want that."

They reached the doors and pushed them open, dodging a couple of freshmen heading in the opposite direction.

"I think you're over-thinking this." said Scott as they headed for the outside seating area. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe she just likes you? Like, really _likes_  you."

"Then how come she always pulls away?" said Stiles rather miserably. "I mean, I went seventeen years a virgin, which pretty much proves I can wait. But it's not even that. It's  _everything_. The only time we've ever actually kissed is when one of us has been in a state of panic, or severely depressed, or about to die."

"Severely depressed?"

"Doesn't matter. What I mean is, I'm starting to think I'm not good for her. I'm a coping mechanism. And maybe she's mine. It's not healthy"

The two of them sat down on either side of a wooden table.

"It sounds to me like you're doing anything you can to  _not_  be happy." said Scott, pulling out a text book and laying it down in front of him. Stiles scrunched his face up at the suggestion.

"Dude, how are any of us supposed to be  _happy_  right now?" he said. "After what he did. After what _I_  did." Stiles cringed internally at himself. "And there I go again, Stiles the fricking hypocrite."

Suddenly, Isaac was shoving himself down beside Scott. He looked much too self-assured for Stiles' liking.

"What is this? Guidance counselling for hormonal thirteen year old girls?"

All Stiles could do was pull an  _oh hilarious_  face as he plonked his elbows down on the table.

"Lydia's been sleeping in Stiles' room for the last three weeks." said Scott as if he were mentioning the weather. Stiles' eyes immediately went wide in protest whilst Isaac's did the same for a different reason.

"Woah, man. I didn't know you were capable."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Isaac made some sort of stupid hand gesture then.

"Just, y'know. You're you. She's her."

"And you're a moron." Stiles added.

"Who's a moron?"

Lydia was suddenly there too, scooting in next to Stiles.

"No one." he said quickly, surprised at the way she immediately wove her fingers between his. Scott tried to hide his smile of pride but it didn't go unnoticed. "Hold on." Stiles addressed Lydia, trying to ignore the stupid looks he was receiving from his friends. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

Lydia shrugged and smiled nonchalantly.

"Got let out of history. I already did the work."

"I seriously need whatever you're having." said Stiles, repeatedly baffled by Lydia Martin's genius.

"I think we all know what she's having, or  _who_." said Isaac.

Lydia looked as if she was about to say something, then decided against it. Then suddenly her hand was no longer in Stiles' and all he could do was mouth silent insults at Isaac.

Isaac just smiled infuriatingly, then planted his hands down on the table and stood up.

"Well, I've got some work that needs my undivided attention." he said, but he didn't sound wholly committed to the statement. Stiles caught his glance before it shifted onto Lydia. He saw something sad in his eyes, as if he was seeing a memory pulled from his own life reflected back at him in the form of the two of them. Two people, uncertain of what their relationship was or where they stood, but kind of certain that they were both slightly in love with each other. It must've been familiar to him. And that punched a fist of guilt into Stiles' chest.

Isaac must've noticed Stiles examining him because an unsettled expression came over his face.

"Okay, so I'm gonna go." he said. "There's a nerd staring at me and I don't want to have to tell him that he's not my type."

Isaac's sarcasm was off. But it seemed Stiles was the only one that noticed.

"See you at lunch." said Scott.

Stiles didn't say anything as Isaac walked away. Then he felt Lydia's gentle hand upon his arm.

"Stiles, what's wrong?" she said, genuinely concerned.

Stiles shook himself, but the images had already started to flood in, like they had so many times before, the ones he'd tried so hard to keep at bay. They clutched at his body making him feel week, overwhelmed.

"Nothing." he said quickly. "I'm fine. Everything's fine."

 _Fine_  is a subjective word after all.

 


End file.
